Calmly, Carefully, Completely(15)

“I don’t think I’m different,” I say. “I’m just like every one of those kids.” She nods toward the cabins. “No better. No worse. Same fears. Same drives.” I shrug.

He nods slowly and starts to pick up sticks again. He has a tattoo on the back of his neck. The words Sam is written in gothic, chunky letters.

“Is Sam your girlfriend?” I blurt out. I immediately want to bite the words back, but they’re already out there.

“Sam?” he asks.

I rub the back of my neck, then point to his. “The tattoo.”

He smiles. “Oh, that.”

But he doesn’t elaborate. I feel like a dummy for even asking the first time. I’m not going to ask again.

“So, you’re home from college?” he asks. I can’t believe he doesn’t remember me.

I nod.

“Where do you go?” he asks. He looks at me, waiting for my answer. And I don’t think I’ve ever had this much attention from a man that I actually want to talk to. He really cares about what I say. Or at least he wants me to think he does.

“NYU,” I reply. “Junior this year.”

“My brother goes to NYU.” He smiles. “Logan Reed?” he asks. But it’s a big school. The chance of me knowing his brother is small. But I know about all his brothers because I asked a lot of questions when I was looking for him.

I shake my head.

“He’s deaf.”

I shake my head again. The only time I have seen him was outside the prison yesterday, never at school.

“All tatted up, like me.” He looks down at his arms, and I take the opportunity to look at his tattoos.

“Can I see?” I ask. I don’t want to be rude, but I really want to look at him. I don’t want to touch him, but I want to look.

He grins. “You can look, but you can’t touch,” he teases. It’s like he read my mind. My heart starts to thud. I’m the last person he has to worry about touching him. “Because I like my nuts exactly as they’re hanging.”

My face floods with heat, but I don’t let the opportunity to study the drawings on his skin pass me by. I look at the cross that has the word Mom written inside it. “What’s this one for?” I ask.

“My mom died a few years ago.”

He also has the word Dad with wings attached. “Your dad died too?” I ask.

“He left after our mom died.” He stills. He’s suddenly tense, and I hate that I asked.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“I don’t want your sympathy, princess,” he says.

I snort. “Princess?”

He nods, his gaze lingering on my eyes, then my lips. He licks his and draws his lip ring into his mouth to play with it with his tongue. “Princess,” he says slowly.

“You couldn’t be further from the truth,” I say. He has me pegged all wrong.

“I doubt it.” He looks at me for a minute too long. My stomach flips.

Suddenly, I hear the crash of boots stomping through the woods. I look up and see my dad walking toward us, a scowl on his face, and he has the hatchet in his hand. Pete immediately crosses his hands in front of his lap and steps away from me.

“Go help with dinner,” Dad snaps at me. He glares at Pete.

“Yes, sir,” I say. I take the sticks Pete has in his arms and smile at him. “See you later,” I whisper.

“Don’t go,” he whispers back. “Who’s going to protect my nuts?”